Chapter 717: Danger, Ferocity, and Roughness

“I won’t let something like poison get to me. Got it? And if you’ve got something to say, spit it out already.”

Right before Ragna stepped forward, Anne handed him a few vials of medicine from behind.

Ragna thought about telling her that the poison had already taken effect—but decided against it. Now wasn’t the time to say it.

Ragna knew exactly what he needed. As always, when he held a sword, the path became clear.

Poison.

Lynox had said Heskal’s engraved weapon was laced with poison. But Will hadn’t responded at all. All that remained on his shoulder was the mark of a surprise blow he hadn’t anticipated.

The blood that flowed from the puncture was quickly washed away by the rain. There wasn’t even a trace left.

Sure, the downpour played a role, but he’d also tensed his muscles the moment he was stabbed to close the wound.

Body reinforcement technique. Not bad, Fanatic.

He’d learned the technique just by watching Enkrid train. There were even a few methods he picked up directly from the Fanatic himself.

“Haha, brother, yes! Just like that! Now add more weight! More, more, more, more!”

...Yikes. He almost had a waking nightmare.

No wonder they called him a lunatic. He didn’t even challenge him to a duel—just grinned and kept lifting iron blocks while saying “Good!” over and over again.

When Ragna tried to swat him away with his sword, they ended up sparring. Honestly, that one counted as half a real fight.

They had both thrown in a half-spoon of seriousness and ended up clashing.

A monster of a fanatic—one you couldn’t take down in a single blow.

That was Ragna’s evaluation of Audin that day. Then, he raised his sword.

He had learned what it meant to be fierce from Enkrid—but that didn’t mean it always came out when needed.

Still, if he were training alongside the parasites clinging to their commander, with half a life on the line, his body and mind had no choice but to heat up.

When he took on risk, motivation always rose.

Like when the damned wildcat suddenly approached in silence.

Or when that barbarian bastard suddenly picked a fight.

Same thing.

And if nothing provoked him, Ragna would sometimes go out of his way to pick a fight himself. When he needed a push, that’s what he’d do.

Especially when the commander wasn’t around. When it was time to ★ 𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 ★ fight, he preferred to do it in a rougher atmosphere.

One wrong move of the hand and death would lick at your cheek. Lose focus for even a second, and your neck would be torn out.

He’d faced countless moments like that—when he had to take one more step past the cliff’s edge. He had to dance in the flames. He had to walk barefoot across a blade.

If he didn’t...

I’d be the youngest.

And that—he could never allow.

Ragna let his greatsword hang low and stared forward.

I will never be the youngest.

His resolve became will, and it began to shine.

Just like on that day when Enkrid’s determination shone in the midst of battle, a similar light now burst from within Ragna.

If he had to take risks to avoid being the youngest, then he would. If ferocity was needed, he’d drag it up and make it his weapon. That’s why his drive surged more than ever.

Ragna was dead serious.

***

Heskal retracted Camouflage—his blade that could extend and contract—and returned to his original stance.

He stood facing Ragna, body slightly turned, left hand hidden behind his back.

Then, without a care, he stared blankly at him.

Such relaxed composure would surely instill pressure in the opponent. It would also keep the blade’s extended form—its disguised length—fresh in Ragna’s mind.

That pressure would cloud the opponent’s thoughts. And, with the wound, would drain stamina and tip the psychological scales.

It was all intentional.

Of course, if he’d had the chance to end it with that last strike, he would have. But he couldn’t.

So after landing the hit, Heskal pulled back on instinct.

Press with the real sword. Strike with the illusion blade. No change in tactics—and the strike had been effective.

His eyes...

There was no visible tension—no swallowing, no twitching.

Outwardly, Heskal looked calm.

Even though Ragna had a gaping wound in his shoulder, his posture was unchanged from a moment ago. Still standing in the exact spot he’d sidestepped to.

Aside from flinching when stabbed, he hadn’t moved a muscle. It might as well have been nothing.

Shhhhhhh.

Rain hammered his eyelids.

Medusa’s curse didn’t work on him—so he could keep his head up and eyes forward. But Ragna wasn’t the same. His head was tilted slightly downward, his gaze lowered.

His eyes were hidden.

Normally, when one side’s vision is impaired and the other’s isn’t, the latter holds the advantage.

So why... why did it feel so cold?

Heskal felt his muscles tightening, his entire body stiffening like a venomous snake ready to strike.

Why?

His instincts recognized the danger before his mind did.

Ragna hadn’t moved an inch—but Heskal’s countless battles whispered to him a bone-deep warning.

He was dangerous. He was a threat. Heskal’s spine tingled.

This was his body sensing a crisis.

When was the last time I felt this?

He couldn’t remember.

Heskal pursed his lips, then slowly exhaled. From his lungs to his abs, his muscles relaxed just slightly—releasing the tension from his frame.

He massaged calm back into his body with long, slow breaths.

At the same time, his eyes scanned Ragna’s frame again.

Both hands gripped the sword. Arms lowered. His left arm was crossing his torso.

Ragna had swung the greatsword once already—but now Heskal saw it clearly.

He hadn’t truly moved yet.

That greatsword—that was the real threat.

A two-handed sword.

No other weapons. His attack style seemed to hinge on putting everything into a single blow.

It reminded Heskal of what he’d taught Riley.

And what I taught Riley—I learned from the family head.

Ragna would’ve been taught something similar when he was young.

Of course he’d resemble Tempest Zaun’s style.

Should I be glad I feel threatened now?

Obviously.

Now that his mind was flowing again, he could predict the kinds of techniques Ragna might use.

Which gave him a better chance of winning.

Now he understood why he’d felt that chill.

You’ve trained well, Ragna.

The strike Ragna would unleash wouldn’t be easy to block.

But Ragna...

A raindrop hit Heskal’s eye, making him squint.

Wrinkles formed at the edge of his eyes.

He had survived all these years as a swordsman. Brushed with death countless times.

His instincts—honed through all those brushes with the abyss—had once again kept him alive.

Not everyone fights fair, you know.

If you don’t learn that, you’ll die right here.

KR-RRRRRACK!

A lightning bolt drew a jagged line across the sky above the cursed snake. The thunderclouds parted, replaced briefly by that dazzling flash. The white light widened everyone’s field of view.

Heskal waited for the afterimage to fade before speaking.

Ragna stood in the exact same posture—silent.

“That’s gotta hurt.”

Still trying to mess with his opponent’s head.

To win a fight, you had to do whatever it took.  Kids stuck in the well of Zaun didn’t get that. Same with most geniuses.

They think it’s about pure skill. Win fair and square, and that makes you the best.

Honest and proper means? There’s no such thing in battle.

Ragna Zaun. Do you understand that truth?

Probably not.

To understand that, you need to fight desperately against someone better than you. Only by overcoming those walls can you grow. Sometimes, that matters more than raw talent.

Breaking through your limits—

That kind of experience becomes your strength when despair drowns you. It becomes your anchor in the chaos.

But I doubt you’ve had that yet.

The most impressive things about him were his unexpectedly sharp tongue—and this current level of concentration.

He wasn’t flinching at all. He simply stood there, composed.

It reminded Heskal of Enkrid from the Border Guard.

Even to him, that man hadn’t seemed ordinary. Regardless of current skill, his past hardships were written across his body.

Not scars. But his habits. The way he made decisions during spars—that told the whole story.

That man might’ve been different.

With that thought, Heskal spoke.

“Be careful.”

And struck with the same stance as before.

This time, Ragna reacted even faster.

Of course. Move at the same speed, and that freak blade would get him.

Heskal aborted the thrust mid-way, twisting his wrist.

The blade extended again—no sound. A silent lunge, curving through the air, slicing wide.

Even a simple slash doubles in range when the blade grows longer.

Heskal was aiming for the motion of Ragna raising his greatsword upward.

Now! Use what you’ve prepared!

As the disguised blade collided, a hidden edge would shoot sideways—to slice his throat.

He calculated the angle, measured the force Ragna would exert. He’d open a path with his sword and pin him down.

All the numbers added up.

The blade grazed Ragna’s cheek—pic—just a line.

But instead of swinging, Ragna retreated. He dodged the danger zone completely.

Then he kicked off the ground.

Faster than retreat—an explosive launch.

BOOM!

The earth cracked beneath his foot.

Charging in, Ragna raised his leg—going for Heskal’s knee.

But if there was one thing Heskal was unmatched in within Zaun, it was defense.

He bent his knee, lowered his center of gravity, and dropped his left hand to his abdomen.

Clang!

His gauntlet morphed into a small shield and blocked the kick.

THUNK!

Heskal hopped back slightly, dispersing the impact.

He let the shock split through his ankle, knee, waist—and escaped it while moving.

Ragna retracted his kicking leg—then slammed it into the ground with all the force he'd built up.

BANG!

His foot sank to the ankle.

To anyone watching, it looked like an offensive stance—but the greatsword didn’t move. It was a feint.

Heskal didn’t fall for it.

Muscle tension, momentum, even the fingers gripping the sword—If he swung now, Heskal could dodge it easily.

Ragna wasn’t that much of a fool. He wouldn’t waste a stored strike like that.

Heskal didn’t underestimate him.

“You’re sloppy.”

That’s what he said.

Ragna didn’t reply.

Heskal kept attacking. Sometimes Ragna dodged. Other times, he took scrapes on his arms or neck.

If Alexandra’s fight was decided in a single clash, this one was a test of endurance.

Heskal calculated multiple moves ahead, again and again, pressing Ragna harder each time.

Ragna barely dodged, as if always on the edge.

How much time passed? Hard to say.

Short, if you measured by duels between knights. Long, if you were just watching.

Time was always relative.

For one of them, this moment passed quickly. For the other, it dragged on.

Heskal raised his sword—and paused.

A dead end.

His precision-based form, refined through experience, talent, and instinct, was like a guide.

But now that path was blocked.

If he kept swinging, he might trap Ragna within three more moves.

But he’d also get hit.

Knights move beyond human limits—but they’re not omnipotent.

Limits exist.

If you want this fight to drag on—so be it.

As he moved to slash again—seeing through Ragna’s half-baked feints—

Another dead end?

Even precision swordplay had flaws. And flaws could be corrected.

Heskal wasn’t seeing one step ahead—he was planning many.

In pure swordsmanship, he didn’t believe Ragna could surpass him.

And yet strange things kept happening.

Dead ends. Again and again.

What do you mean, the path won’t connect?

The simple strategy of carving a road and pressing in—It kept collapsing at the start.

Each swing should’ve led somewhere. But it was breaking off.

If he struck here—he could already see the outcome. His sword would snap. He’d be forced to retreat with an awkward posture.

Could he just back off entirely?

Was Ragna fast enough to catch him?

Yes.

He saw it earlier—during the kick.

His brain automatically projected what would come next.

And finally, Ragna opened his mouth.

“You’re sloppy, Heskal.”